


sweet dreams are made of this

by borispavlikovsky



Category: The Goldfinch - Donna Tartt
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, Just soft sleepy boys tbh, M/M, Panic Attack, The Goldfinch, Theo and Boris, i love them so much it hurts, i'm not projecting onto theo he's just me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-10-02 11:57:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17263796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/borispavlikovsky/pseuds/borispavlikovsky
Summary: It’s the complete opposite of what they are doing right now, though. This has nothing to do with lust, or desire, or the feeling of wanting more. This is letting someone in, and even though Theo hates letting people in, he lets Boris do it this time. Because pulling up walls is something so exhausting, so extremely tiring, that he simple can’t do it anymore. Not again. Not tonight.Or, in which Theo has another panic attack and Boris is there to calm him down.(Soft, sleepy boys, nothing else.)





	sweet dreams are made of this

**Author's Note:**

> Hello dear reader! Thank you for clicking on this fic, I hope you enjoy.
> 
> Just a quick note: Theo has a panic attack, so tw for that!! It’s mostly fluff tho, don’t worry.
> 
> Lastly; English isn’t my native language so please don't yell at me if you spot any mistakes thank u legend
> 
> Enjoy!

Thursday night.

A relatively cold one, actually. He’s not used to the cold anymore, the feeling of goosebumps and the tingling sensation of the wind on his bare skin, weirdly unfamiliar but familiar at the same time. Unfamiliar because the heat in Las Vegas is intense and seems to be never-ending, but familiar because… well.

It is because it reminds him of New York.

Of her, actually.

Of the endless freezing cold nights he spent with her in her bed, cuddled up in the thick, soft blankets and feeling safe and sound in her arms. With his head on her chest and her slow, steady breathing tickling his cheeks. Her breathing almost inaudible, you had to listen closely and carefully to be able to hear it. He had always loved those nights, stormy and cold but oh so safe. It reminded him of what being at home truly feels like.

Theo hasn’t felt at home in a very long time.

Sighing deeply, he slowly shifts, turning onto his back with his arms crossed over his chest, careful to not wake up the person who’s currently snoring next to him.

Not _just_ a person, of course. Because that would be way too fucking easy, wouldn’t it? If there’s one thing Theo Decker has learned over the years, it’s that life isn’t easy.

Ever.

He sighs and closes his eyes, trying to catch the sleep that he wishes for so desperately, but fears like nothing else at the same time. Because sleep brings does not only bring numbness, it brings pain as well. Nothingness intertwined with pain, the pain winning it from the numbness. He hasn’t slept a whole night through since like, what? A year? Longer? He can’t even remember.

Having to miss her is the worst pain Theo has ever felt in his life. When the bomb had just went off and heaven and hell literally crashed down on him, little Theo had thought that that was the worst pain a human being could ever endure.

He couldn’t have been more wrong if he tried.

Yeah, physical pain is bad, for sure. But mental pain… it tears you apart.

Theo doesn’t even notice he’s crying until his tears start to drip onto his bottom lip and the salty taste slowly spreads across his chapped lips. He tries wiping them away by roughly rubbing under his eyes and over his cheeks, but it’s only making things worse.

_God, those fucking tears. So useless, so worthless and meaningless. Uncontrollable as well._

_Just like life itself._

_Fucking hell._

He’s silently sobbing now, trying his best not to make any noise but knowing very well he’s failing. _Please don’t wake up_ , he begs in silence while using his hand to cover his mouth.

_Please._

He hates moments like this, when he goes straight into panic attacks because the memories of his mom become too vivid. He misses her so much it rips him apart, breaks him in every way possible and Theo has come to the point where he thinks he’s unfixable. Broken for as long (or as short, if things keep going like this) as he lives.

He buries his head in the pillow, noticing how the ragged fabric immediately wettens. His hands are clutching the old bed sheet, the strong smell of burnt cigarettes and old sweat making his chest grow tight, suffocating him almost.

Flashes of bright light and fire and smoke and the sound of sirens ringing in his ears and _he can’t breathe._

He closes his eyes and tries to control his breathing, but it’s hard. So fucking hard. He’s still gasping for air, his knuckles white from gripping the sheets ever so tightly.

The anxiety grows and grows, eats him alive, burns through him like a flame starting in his stomach and clawing to all the outer corners of his body. He’s gasping out loud now, knowing it and hating himself for it but he’s incapable of stopping it.

Just when he thinks the pain is gonna shatter him and everything will end here, his ears somehow catch an almost unnoticeable change in the of what-used-to-be-steady breathing of the person next to him.

_Shit._

“Potter?”

_I fucked up._

_Again._

_Dumb little shit you are._

He keeps his eyes firmly shut, determined to not answer Boris. Bothering him is the last thing Theo wants.  
He feels how the mattress sinks down under Boris’s weight when he sits up, and although he still can’t see anything due to his own closed eyes, he can feel Boris’s eyes burning on him.

“Potter,” he whispers again, a little louder this time.

Theo doesn’t answer, wishes Boris would go back to sleep, but of course he doesn’t.

Boris apparently notices how Theo doesn’t want to speak because he gives up on trying to talk to him, but Boris isn’t blind, nor stupid. In the pale moonlight shining down on the two of them, he can see how Theo’s hands are shaking while clutching the duvets as tight as he can and how the tears are glinstering on his face like fresh raindrops on the vibrant green leaves of a flourishing plant or flower.

It’s dead silent in the room.

 

Boris seems to think for a bit, and does something weird, then.

Or, well, weird…. Hardly anything is weird for them anymore, after almost a year of practically having lived together.

Boris does something he has never done before, at least.

The lanky boy next to Theo shifts to the right so he’s right next to him, lays back down and slowly rolls over so he’s facing Theo, who’s still on his back; muscles tightened, breath ragged, eyes shut.

Boris reaches out, hesitates for a second but then quickly shoves his doubts to the side.

Hand hovering over Theo’s face, he slowly lowers it, and starts to stroke Theo’s hair with long, soothing gestures. His breath is tickling Theo’s cheeks, and weirdly enough, his unwashed smell is somewhat comforting. His bony fingers are sliding through Theo’s blonde hair, fine and soft due to the coconut shampoo they both use.

It’s still dead silent in the room. The only sound comes from Theo’s old clock hanging on the wall across the room, but they’ve both gotten so used to it that they hardly even notice the light _tick, tick, tick_ sounds anymore.

Theo really doesn’t like to admit it, but it feels.. nice to be touched like this. Comforting. Safe.  
It’s been a while since he has allowed anyone to touch him like this, in a soft and vulnerable way.

Because Boris and he have touched each other before. It’s something so confusing and so mind-boggling that he doesn’t like to think about the real meaning behind those heated nights. But sometimes, in the late, late hours, he allows himself to think back on it. To the soft, black curls in his fists, the husky whispering in his ears, the pushing and pulling and the feeling of wanting more, _more, more._

And sometimes, truly sometimes, he allows himself to look forwards to the next confusing but oh so incredible night.

It’s the complete opposite of what they are doing right now, though. This has nothing to do with lust, or desire, or the feeling of wanting more. This is letting someone in, and even though Theo hates letting people in, he lets Boris do it this time. Because pulling up walls is something so exhausting, so extremely tiring, that he simple can’t do it anymore. Not again. Not tonight.

And it’s nice, he can’t even lie. It’s nice to feel Boris’s hand making small circles on his scalp, tugging his hair softly every now and then, twisting his fingers into the soft hairs in the nape of his neck and then smoothly running back up to the front of his scalp again.

While still laying on his back, breath a tad bit more under control now that Boris is taking care of him, he hears how Boris softly starts to hum under his breath. It’s a dark, comforting sound, though his voice is soaked with sleep. Boris might only be 16 years old, that doesn’t change the fact that his voice is just as low as the average tone of a grown-up man.

While being completely focussed on the humming next to him, he takes note of how Boris, after a few seconds, starts to sing almost inaudible words instead of just tones. His hand has smoothly made its way to the left side of Theo’s face now, and is slowly stroking his cheek.

Eyes still closed, Boris softly starts to sing:

 _W górze tyle gwiazd,_  
_W dole tyle miast,_  
_Gwiazdy miastu dają znać,_  
_Że dzieci muszą spać_

Lulled by his voice, the soft press of his hand on Theo’s cheek and his warm breath on his face, he dares to open his eyes and stare at the ceiling that’s currently bathing in the soft 4am lightning. Boris apparently doesn’t notice he has opened his eyes, because he continues to sing the of what Theo supposes Polish song:

 _Ach śpij, kochanie._  
_Jeśli gwiazdkę z nieba chcesz - dostaniesz._  
_Czego pragniesz, daj mi znać._  
_Ja Ci wszystko mogę dać._  
_Więc dlaczego nie chcesz spać?_

Theo is close to being completely calm now, a strange but not unwelcome sense of peace settling in his chest and spreading through his body like hot rays of sunshine shining right through him.

 _Ach śpij, bo nocą,_  
_Kiedy gwiazdy się na niebie złocą,_

He doesn’t know why, but Theo suddenly has the urge to look at Boris’s face. He wants to see the person next to him, the person who always seems to know what to do, he has proved that once again tonight.

So he shifts his head to the right, not enough for Boris’s hand to lose contact with his cheek, but enough to create a little bit of distance in between their heads. He slowly breathes in, out, in, out, in, out. He creates a steady, comfortable breathing pattern before he moves and gently turns onto his left side.

And there he is.

Boris, sweet Boris, still singing the soft and simple words. Theo is certain this is a Polish song now, he vaguely recognises the sound of it. He wouldn’t be surprised if Boris has sung this to him many times, probably while being drunk off their asses. It would explain why it sounds familiar to him, but not familiar enough to know when or where he has heard it before. He doesn’t mind it, tho. Boris’s voice is reassuring and calming, and in this moment that’s all that matters to Theo.

 _Wszystkie dzieci, nawet złe,_  
_Pogrążone są we śnie,_  
_A Ty jedna tylko nie._

Boris’s hand is softly brushing his hair out of Theo’s face, tucking it behind his ear which Theo finds strangely adorable. Faces inches apart, noses almost touching, mouths close enough to breathe in the same air.

 _In, out._  
_In, out._

He tries to take Boris in as much as he can, like a sponge soaking up water. The pitchblack curls falling over his forehead, a little bit too long but not just long enough yet for a haircut. Tiny freckles ghosting over the bridge of his nose, caramel-colored. Theo has to resist the urge to reach out to trace them, to form invisible constellations between the small dots covering his nose and cheeks. To lay his hand on his cheek, feel the soft skin underneath it, remind him of this all being real. Trace his fingers down, along the lines of his jaw, which has started to become more visible since Theo met him.

Theo finds Boris so beautiful he might combust.

 _Były sobie kotki dwa._  
_Aaa, kotki dwa._  
_Szaro-bure, szaro-bure obydwa._

Without him wanting to, Theo’s eyes dart to Boris’s lips. His gaze only lingers on them for a split second, but it’s enough for his own cheeks to turn into a light shade of pink. Boris, who had been staring into his eyes up until that point, apparently notices it and smiles. He sweeps his thumb over Theo’s cheek, making small circles over his temple, touching Theo in a far more intimate way than he has ever done before.

It’s different.

Theo decides he likes different.

Boris’s voice is nothing more than a hoarse whisper now. Cheeks still flushed, Theo dares to look up to find Boris already staring at him and their eyes lock. Like the soft clunck of a Rubik’s Cube falling into place, Theo feels like this is how it’s supposed to be. It’s hard to believe life has ever been anything else than this moment, like everything else has faded away and all that’s left is the soft touch on his face and eyes dark as galaxies boring into his own.

Boris has stopped brushing over Theo’s face and has his face cupped now, long fingers slotting over the curve of his jaw and thumb resting on his cheek. His hands are soft and warm, and without realizing what he’s doing it Theo reaches up.

He lays his own hand on top of Boris’s, intertwining their fingers.

Boris’s singing has faded away, the only thing left is the defining silence hanging over them like a thick blanket. Boris stares into Theo’s eyes, brows slightly furrowed, as if he’s trying to see what goes on in Theo’s mind right now.

It’s intimate, so fucking intimate Theo thinks his heart might beat out of his chest.

The silence lasts, the ticking of the clock the only thing reminding them of time still going forwards.

Theo’s so conflicted, he feels how his own grip on Boris’s hand tightens and he’s confused. So confused. But he also wants. He wants.. He wants-

He wants what?

_You know what you want._

He knows he does.

 _In, out._  
_In, out._

That is the moment Theo Decker decides he’s tired of being afraid. Life’s too short, too precious to be afraid. His life revolves around what if’s and maybe not’s and he decides it’s time to say _fuck you_ to all of that. _Fuck you_ to fear.

And so he does.

He inches forwards and presses his lips to Boris’s. He feels how to taller boy freezes for a split second, like he was caught off guard, before relaxing under his touch.

And then Boris _kisses him back._

The sensation of Boris’s slightly chapped, yet soft lips on his own makes Theo feel dizzy in the best way possible. They fit together perfectly, not giving a shit about the kind of weird angle they’re currently in. It’s soft and loving, electric and exciting, new and curious but like coming home all at the same time. As if heavens are colliding they move together, Theo not being sure at what point exactly Boris’s hand had travelled down to his hip, but the feels his touch burning on his bare skin right above the hem of his underwear. He tangles his own fingers into Boris’s messy hair, and it’s something so magical Theo thinks it can’t be real.

_This is real._

He has to pull back with a gasp, overwhelmed by the intensity of it all. Boris is resting his forehead against Theo’s, not saying anything but knowing it’s okay. This is okay. And for a brief moment, they both are okay as well.

More than okay, even.

“Potter?”

Theo smiles against Boris’s lips because of the nickname. He’d never admit it, but he loves when Boris calls him Potter. It makes him feel special, because there’s only one person Boris calls Potter in the whole wide world and that’s him.

It gets him so soft he leans in again.

It’s only been minutes since the first time he had pressed his lips to Boris’s for the first time, but it feels like a lifetime. How has he ever been able to go without this? It’s weirdly intoxicating, the soft but firm press of Boris’s hand on his skin, the vague taste of vodka that’s still lingering in Boris’s mouth, the soft nibbling on his bottom lip, it’s all new but oh so addictive.

It’s Boris who pulls back this time, gazing into his eyes with a look Theo has never seen before. Theo knows how Boris looks when he’s sad, with drooping eyes and red cheeks and the corners of his mouth turned down. It’s his least favorite Boris expression, one that he unfortunately has seen way too many times.

One of his favorites, though, is when Boris is happy and cheery. His eyes radiate a kind of light that’s so wonderfully bright and extraordinary that it seems as if there are actual rays of light radiating through them. He looks like this when he has won a round of scrabble, or when they innocently fight in the pool in Theo’s backyard, or that time when Theo tripped over a beer bottle that had lingered around on the kitchen floor and Theo almost broke his ass. Boris had laughed so hard the tears had been streaming down his face.

It sure is one of Theo’s favorite facial expressions, but it couldn’t live up to the one that was currently sitting firmly on Boris’s face.  
Boris looked Theo him as if he had placed every star in the thousands of constellations up there in the sky with his own, bare hands.

He felt his cheeks turn red again ( _Goddamnit Decker, you should work on that_ ) and he buries his face in Boris’s chest, his slightly fast yet steady heartbeat like music to his ears.

Maybe, Theo thinks, maybe i have been looking for home in the wrong places.

And as Boris snuggles up against him, snoring like a little kitten, forehead to forehead, chest to chest, legs tangled and clutching onto each other as if they’ll lose each other as soon as they let go, Theo knows.

Las Vegas isn’t home, neither is New York.

Boris is.


End file.
